


In Starlight

by wearethewitches



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Braids, Cats, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), Dwelves, Elf Culture & Customs, F/M, Gen, Kíli Lives, Languages and Linguistics, M/M, Minor Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Overprotective Dwarves, POV Multiple, Post-Quest of Erebor, Protective Siblings, Tattoos, Tauriel Backstory, Thranduil's A+ Parenting, Uncle Thorin, the one where they actually like tauriel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26500981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: "I have walked there sometimes, beyond the forest and up into the night. I have seen the world fall away and the white light forever fill the air.""I saw a fire moon once."The sons of Durin live another day and now, welcomed amongst the dwarves of Erebor, Tauriel must discover what life is like beyond the trees, under stone.
Relationships: Kíli (Tolkien)/Tauriel (Hobbit Movies)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 95





	In Starlight

Olíg, son of Alíg had been mining for over a century. All he’d ever known was the Blue Mountains and the smell of the salt breeze from the sea, that came over from the west. He began mining coal and copper at the age of twenty-six, learning his trade through hard labour, determined to one day run his own operation down the mines and at ninety years of age, he’d found the love of his life down a mine-shaft. Lokur had been tripped by a fallen beam when investigating an old miner’s hut in search of documents and fell down a forty foot hole, in which he was stuck until Olíg and his mining partner, Hullis, got him out an hour later.

Olíg and Lokur had since courted as was proper and married – presided over by the Lady Dís herself. Olíg’s father, Alíg, had been a shield-brother to Balin, son of Fundin and the advisor had insisted upon having them wed under the highest authority he could muster, caring much for the son of his old friend. It was especially touching to Olíg when Balin stood in for his father, as Alíg had gone to the Halls of Waiting not too long before he first met Lokur.

Olíg always made sure to speak with Balin at least once a year, after that, even when he went on his quest to Erebor. The moment he heard that Smaug the Terrible had perished, he turned to Lokur and told him they were going. Lokur had raised an eyebrow, most amused, until Olíg started to pack up their most prized possessions, which was when Lokur realised that Olíg was most serious. It had taken the Lady Dís – _Princess Dís_ , he kept correcting himself – sending out an announcement that a great caravan would leave for the Lonely Mountain when the snows first began to thaw and that she would not tolerate anyone leaving now, only to freeze to death on the way there.

More than a little shamed, Olíg turned his focus back to mining, readying Ered Luin for an exodus of dwarrow, young and old. Few were remaining, he found. The Blue Mountains are far from the great cities of men, with whom they trade and with Erebor retaken, it was more than likely that the Watchtower of the North would yet again rise, stronger than ever. Olíg listens to the older miners, who once lived there and are eager to return in their twilight years to see it restored and hears tales of the gold mines and the vast treasure horde of King Thrór, a new excitement filling his veins just as well as any mug of ale.

And of course, the time came when they left, many like Olíg looking back at Ered Luin in one, last doubtful moment. He wondered if he would ever see them again. Those Firebeards and Broadbeams that came from those mountains had long ago said that the veins were running dry. There is nothing left for them, there.

With such a large convoy of dwarrow, dams and dwarflings, it was not until the high heat of summer that they finally stepped foot in the hallowed halls of their ancestors and wept for the joy of it. Olíg only found Balin later, when the census of their people was studied and resources distributed, the old advisor clapping him on the shoulder and holding their heads together in greeting.

“I am glad you came,” he says.

Olíg smiles and presses against him harder, beads reflecting the torchlight of Erebor. “You are family. I would always have come, even if it were only to retrieve your body. I am glad you are _alive,_ uncle.”

Balin’s eyes are teary when they part. He calls Olíg his nephew before he goes and it fills Olíg with a warmth that he carries with him for several days afterwards, when he and Lokur adventure through the endless halls of the Kingdom of Erebor.

Lokur adores everything. “Look! That tapestry depicts Nain the second – and over here! This is the famous Doorway of Calínia!” He drags Olíg to site after site, his higher-class education becoming increasingly apparent. Olíg almost feels inferior at times, but then comes the more obvious moments where Lokur hasn’t had training, like when he tries to cross a bridge that lacks the feeling of living stone. Olíg has to tug him back, insisting on using another path.

“It’ll crack beneath our feet – it is _broken,_ earth-brain,” he says, using the term for one with no Stone Sense fondly enough. Lokur wrinkles his nose, then follows Olíg down another path.

Many like Olíg – those with Stone Sense – are unwillingly paired with the earth-brained, so explorers don’t wander through unsafe paths. King Thorin and his Company may have been living there since Durin’s Day, but even with the help of the Iron Hills garrison, they could not inspect every nook and cranny of the mountain. Those up top have other things to worry about, in any case.

Like the elves.

Olíg has seen elves before, travelling to the Grey Havens in seek of a boat to Valinor. From Lokur, he knows these trivial sorts of detail, though he doesn’t always want to. For instance, he knows that Thranduil Elvenking, who abandoned Erebor to fire and brimstone, is not a Silvan elf – those with the red hair to match the turning leaves of autumn, such as the elf amongst the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.

“Rumour has it,” Hullis says to him in the Great Feasting Hall, “that the she-elf is not welcome among her own kind.”

“Then how is she welcome among ours?” asks a stranger, sat nearby. Beside him, a common Firebeard finishes a chicken leg before answering.

“Her name’s Tauriel. She saved Prince Kíli’s life in Laketown. Apparently, they’re in love.” The Firebeard grins and it’s clear that he jests when he says, “It’s disgusting.”

“In love?” Olíg repeats, looking up to where she does indeed sit amongst the younger prince. Olíg can remember seeing him on occasion, of darker head than Fíli Golden-Haired, their Crown Prince, but other than that he is unfamiliar. The elven woman smiles at him softly, laughing unexpectedly when the prince makes a joke. “In love,” he says again, quiet, though something nags at him.

He asks the Firebeard, “Are they courting?”

The dwarf looks up at them, grin dimming. “Not officially, seems. I know they’ve got permission from the king, though.”

 _That is what I find wrong of this,_ Olíg realises, a disapproving frown forming. “Really? He is the prince. Is she to be one of us or not?”

“One of us,” says the Firebeard, though there is hesitation at the end of his sentence. The surrounding dwarrow grumble, matching Olíg in their disapproval. It’s one thing to love a dam – another to refuse courtship in the same breath.

Hullis comments, “She doesn’t have clasps or beads. Maybe the prince is dim and is waiting for a sign. Wouldn’t be the first time a young ‘un didn’t read a dam’s braids properly.”

“Maybe,” Olíg agrees, though his scepticism is clear. This… _Tauriel_ is an elf. While Olíg doesn’t know much of her allegiances, surely none of Durin’s line has been so blind as to not explain what it means to be adopted into their community – braids included.

He looks away, meeting eyes with the Firebeard, who looks at him curiously. Saying his thoughts aloud, he asks, “Has the lady Tauriel been told of our customs? If the prince is waiting for a sign, it may never come.”

The Firebeard, surprising him, asks, “You’re Balin’s _inùdoy?”_

“We claim each other,” Olíg replies, startled. He grips his chalice tightly, nerves clear. “I am Olíg, son of Alíg.”

“Well met,” says the Firebeard, not giving his own name. “I don’t know whether Tauriel is being instructed in our customs, but even if she wasn’t, she’s a dwarrowdam, now. Being approached by anyone would be asking for another adoption, not courting.”

“Who represents her?”

The dwarf shrugs, something like boredom on his face – but his eyes glitter in amusement. “Why don’t you ask her?”

Olíg swallows deeply, looking up at the she-elf. He’s young, he knows, in the prime of his life…but he could set an example. The opening lines to adoption and courtship are the same, anyhow. Someone will either take offence to him supposedly asking for courtship – forget his marriage beads – or someone will think him too young to have a pebble of his own, let alone an adoptee.

Hullis, eyeing Olíg up with a slow-dawning expression of realisation, hisses, “Lokur will _kill_ you!”

“No, he won’t.” Olíg replies, getting up from amongst the common rabble he proudly calls himself a part of and heads towards the high table. Hullis calls out his name, practically moaning in dread, every step Olíg takes further pounding into his head that this is a good idea.

The she-elf notices him before the princes, who only look his way when they see her gaze turn. Olíg can feel his heart within his chest pounding against his ribcage, but he doesn’t allow any nervousness to show on his face, drawing on all of his sincerity as the Feasting Hall grows quiet.

“Lady Tauriel,” he greets, bowing respectfully. “Olíg, son of Alíg, at your service.”

“Master Olíg,” she says in turn, voice reserved, yet with a hint of curiosity. “Well met. What brings you here?”

Standing up straight, Olíg holds himself steady and asks, politely as he can, “I wish to ask who represents your will in the Mountain.”

For a beat, there is lull in tempest that is the dwarrow’s feast, before Prince Kíli bares his teeth, almost snarling at him. Tauriel herself looks overly concerned at his expression, clearly panicking as she replies to him.

“Master Olíg, I do not understand your question. To what representation do you refer?”

Olíg holds back his judgement against Prince Kíli. Obviously, the dwarf is selfishly keeping her to himself, but Olíg won’t pretend he didn’t see the love shared between them – at least, once it was pointed out.

“You have been welcomed to Erebor,” says the miner, “and with that, comes adoption into a dwarven family of your choice. Or families,” he corrects himself.

Tauriel looks confused and almost perturbed at the notion. “Adoption?”

The prince fidgets in his seat, reaching over to take Tauriel’s hand and it is not just Olíg who reacts angrily. The whole high table – half of Thorin’s Company and a dozen nobles, besides – along with the closest dwarrow who can hear the conversation all makes varied rumbles and shouts, Prince Kíli snatching his hand back in fright.

“What is this?” Tauriel exclaims in a hiss and Olíg hides his pity at her glare. He sweats under his clothes, rightfully terrified of the dam.

_I should have just walked up to the King himself!_

But now it is on him. On Olíg, son of Alíg. For the sake of the elven dam in front of him, he must say this right.

“Lady Tauriel,” he begins, repeating himself, “You have been welcomed to Erebor. With this privilege, you are now an honorary dam and- and dams are special.” He winces at his own words, but strives to continue. He can only mine onwards, here.

Luckily for Olíg, Balin comes to his rescue. “Lass,” he interrupts, “Kíli has done you a disservice. We the Company thought you to have not come to any conclusion yet, as to belonging to a dwarven family.”

“Must I, to stay?”

“To court Kíli,” corrects King Thorin II of Erebor, himself. He looks at Olíg and bows his head in gratitude, using Iglishmêk to order him to stay put. Olíg signs his understanding, listening closely as Balin leans around the princess, Dís, to speak further to Tauriel.

“The adoption is a simple matter. It merely attaches you to a family in the records, a vouching of your character. As a dam, it also gives you the opportunity to ask one of your new kin to represent you in Courtship.”

“To be your champion, if you are dishonoured,” Olíg adds.

“Aye,” Balin nods sagely, “and to sign contracts as your witness in matters of law, which will be especially important for you, lass. You’ve a right to learn Khuzdul, once you marry, but you’ll be seeing contracts written in our language many times before then.”

“I see,” says Tauriel, voice stilted. Olíg thinks she looks rather pale. She looks to Kíli, who reluctantly nods.

“I didn’t realise it had to be done so soon,” he says, regretful, looking to Balin and King Thorin for guidance.

King Thorin grumbles, “She should have had a representative the moment we invited her inside the Mountain – she only left Thranduil’s keeping because she loves you. We all know that, nephew.”

Prince Kíli further wilts, only for Tauriel to reach out cautiously, eyes flashing around as she looks at the dwarrow, as if expecting another round of negatives. Olíg nods subtly, Tauriel catching the motion – her arm confidently draping itself over Prince Kíli’s lap.

“I want to court him,” she says loudly. “What do I need to do?”

“Find a family to join, who isn’t related by blood to Prince Kíli,” Olíg states.

“I’d recommend Bifur,” Balin gestures down the table, to where the old warrior sits. Olíg knows his cousins – the brother Bombur and Bofur, the latter of whom he’s mined with before. Balin turns to him, asking in florid Khuzdul, “Do you accept this child of Sulladad as your own?”

Shocking Olíg to his core, Bifur replies to him in the common tongue. “I take this child of Eru Ilúvatar as my own,” he says, presumably for Tauriel’s benefit.

“What is her name?” Balin then asks, solemnly. He doesn’t so much as blink at the use of Westron. Olíg holds his breath.

He watches as the old warrior stands, moving behind the chairs to where Tauriel sits on a low, wide bench covered in thick velvets, lacking a chair suited for both her size and the height of the table. Olíg stares unabashedly as Bifur holds out his hand for her to take, which she does, freely – eagerly.

“I am Bifur,” he says, “son of Bidur. You are Tauriel and in the Mountain, you are _Bregedúr.”_

“That is Sindarin,” murmur Tauriel, her vulnerable expression forcing Olíg to look away; a dam should not be seen in so precious a circumstance by a stranger.

Balin clears his throat gently, then says the final words. “Well met, Bregedúr, daughter of Bifur.”

Throughout the Feasting Hall, dwarrow raise their cups and with them, Olíg says, “Well met, Bregedúr!”

Bifur, son of Bidur raises Tauriel’s hand to his forehead, resting her long, pale fingers there before easing it back, removing a spare bead from his hair.

“Will make you a new one of your own,” he says, gruff, reaching to her head to start a clan braid. Olíg truly looks away, then, trying to ignore the flash of wildfire red out of the corner of his eye. Stepping closer to Balin, he bows in respect, then makes his excuses.

“ _Irak’adad_ , I did not mean insult.”

“No,” Balin replies, eyeing Olíg’s marriage braid wryly, “You were just being good-natured. The Mountain is only as strong as its dams.”

“Durin VI?” Olíg guesses.

His adopted uncle – a father in everything but name to him – smiles that happy smile of his, blue eyes bright as he shakes his head. “Durin II. Go,” he waves him off, “eat and make merry. You are forgiven, this time.”

“Fair parting, Balin.” And Olíg turns around and walks back to Hullis, feeling like he has done a good deed this day – even if Hullis berates him for his stupidity.

He looks back up at the high table while Hullis’ reprimands fly in one ear and out the other and sees Prince Kíli arguing with old Bifur, the lady Tauriel red-faced but seemingly more entertained than she was when Olíg first saw her. Two braids sit in her flaming hair, now. The first, the family braid of Clan Ur, put in by Bifur himself – and the second, the Braid of the Dwarrowdam.

“Who here bets that Bregedúr’s father won’t let Kíli betroth himself to her straight off?” Olíg interrupts his friend, who immediately scoffs.

“Well, that’s obviously a sham bet. He’s the prince! He can’t skip five stages of Courting!”

The Firebeard raises his ale to Olíg. “It’s been done before, but I agree with your friend. Bifur’s not one to let tradition fade. I heard he made his cousin Bombur go through the whole Seven Stages three times before letting him wed his dam!”

Olíg looks at the Firebeard in disbelief, “No! That’s not true – Bombur would never make it through the Seven Stages _three_ times!”

But the Firebeard only waggles his eyebrows. “Not even for Iklandís?”

The miner considers that for more than just a moment, then folds. “Got me there, actually. He’s gone on that dam, always has been.”

The Firebeard only laughs, then asks, “So, what say you to a different bet? I’ll put down a full night of ale on them being married before next Durin’s Day!”

“Done!” Olíg turns to Hullis, who groans to himself, then bets a three-year.

Their new friend chuckles to himself, then finally gives his name. “Nori, son of Kuri.”

Olíg leans over the table to bump heads with him gladly. “Well met – and don’t worry, I’ll win the bet!”

“Ha, you wish!”


End file.
